Love Like Blood

by Mark Billingham

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Three days later, on a bright but cold Tuesday afternoon, Thorne stepped out of Aldgate East tube station and set off along Whitechapel High Street. He called the hospital and, after several minutes of irritatingly upbeat hold music, he was finally put through to a nurse who was willing to give him the information he was after.

  Albeit a little brusquely.

  Tanner’s surgery had gone well, he was told, and she was now on her way back from the recovery area. Thorne thanked the nurse, and as soon as he had ended the call he made another, to ensure that once again there would be an officer stationed permanently outside Tanner’s room.

  Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, Thorne turned left on to Brick Lane and picked up his pace. He smiled as he passed the first piece of street art – an enormous mural of a vaguely furtive hedgehog – or perhaps he was simply looking forward to passing on the good news about Tanner’s operation to the man he was on his way to meet.

  It had been a while since Thorne had been on this street, one of the most famous in east London, and his last visit had not ended well. A stag party he had been roped into had ended, predictably, in one of Brick Lane’s famous curry houses, and a row with a group of braying City boys on the adjacent table. When the groom-to-be – who Thorne had never liked much to begin with – had picked up an empty Kingfisher bottle, Thorne had been forced to step in and produce his warrant card, quickly defusing an ugly situation and almost certainly saving the bolshie DS his job.

  Walking past another colourful mural and getting his first sniff of one of those curry houses, Thorne decided that this street was a perfect example of everything that was great about living in a multi-ethnic city. Fifty yards further ahead was the Brick Lane mosque. Once a home for French Protestants, then later the ‘great synagogue’ for the East End’s influx of European Jews, it was now a place of worship for the area’s Bangladeshi Muslims, whose culture and cuisine gave the street its unique flavour. Its sights and sounds and smells.

  God, those amazing smells.

  The Royal Taj was at the north end of the lane, across from the old Truman brewery, and Arman Bannerjee was sitting at a table with a view of the door. Best in the place, Thorne guessed. The businessman looked up as Thorne came through the door and, walking across to the table, Thorne saw no reason to disguise his delight at the fact that he was eating with friends.

  Dhillon and Mansoor were watching him, too.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch.’ Thorne spoke directly to Bannerjee.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I spoke to your secretary,’ Thorne said. ‘She was very helpful.’ He nodded towards Dhillon and Mansoor. ‘She didn’t tell me that you’d have company.’

  Bannerjee shrugged. His napkin was tucked into his collar to protect his expensive-looking jacket. ‘We don’t just have weekly meetings, you know. We have a lot of other things to discuss. There’s a website to keep on top of, and newsletters… and we’re trying to co-ordinate a demonstration.’

  ‘A peaceful demonstration,’ Dhillon said. The Sikh, who was a little older than his companions, smiled and passed a hand across the front of his turban. ‘Above all, it must be peaceful.’

  ‘Of course,’ Thorne said.

  ‘That goes without saying,’ Bannerjee said.

  Mansoor, the imam, pointed to the empty chair at the table. ‘Would you like to join us?’

  Thorne hesitated, glancing at the waiter standing expectantly nearby. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mansoor said.

  ‘Please.’ Bannerjee looked down at his food, and was already eating again as Thorne said ‘That’s very kind’ and slipped into the chair next to him.

  Dhillon signalled to the waiter and, once an extra plate had been laid down, he nudged several of the serving bowls towards Thorne. ‘We always order too much, anyway,’ he said.

  Mansoor grunted, then he too went back to his lunch.

  The meal, unsurprisingly, was vegetarian, and though Thorne’s favourite Indian dishes all contained lamb or chicken, he was hungry enough to make the sacrifice. He eagerly helped himself to aubergine, dhal and okra. He took two large spoonfuls of rice and tore off a healthy section of roti.

  He turned to Bannerjee and said, ‘I wanted to tell you that Detective Inspector Tanner had her surgery this morning and that it went well.’

  The three of them looked up.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ Mansoor said.

  Dhillon nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, very good news. We were all so shocked at what happened to her. A very bad business.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’ Mansoor looked around the table. ‘A fire.’

  ‘Really?’ Bannerjee stared at Thorne, chewing. ‘You came here just to tell me that?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Of course it’s excellent news, but could you not have just telephoned?’ He smiled, a sliver of something caught between his teeth. ‘You could have left a message with my secretary.’

  ‘I suppose I could,’ Thorne said.

  Bannerjee’s smile was suddenly a little thinner. ‘It’s odd, that’s all. I mean, a few days ago we were not even on the list.’

  There were knowing nods from Mansoor and Dhillon.

  ‘Yes, well, I also wanted to apologise for what happened at the hospital,’ Thorne said. ‘I understand if you were offended, but you must appreciate that my primary concern must be for my colleague’s safety.’

  ‘It was unfortunate,’ Dhillon said.

  ‘You weren’t there,’ Bannerjee said, quickly. ‘It was humiliating.’

  Mansoor reached across to pull a dish towards him. ‘So, are you?’

  ‘Am I what?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Are you apologising?’

  Thorne tried to hold the stare but the imam had the beating of him. ‘I’m sorry Mr Bannerjee was offended,’ he said.

  Mansoor scoffed and shook his head. ‘A politician’s answer.’

  ‘We talk to politicians,’ Dhillon said. ‘On behalf of our organisation. We tell them they are not doing enough to prevent or punish these attacks on our communities. These hate crimes. Oh, they are always so very sorry that such things are happening, sorry that people are afraid and angry. They are never sorry that in many ways they are allowing it to happen. Never sorry that it’s their fault.’

  ‘I’m just a copper,’ Thorne said.

  Dhillon grunted, used a piece of bread to mop up his plate. Mansoor muttered something and brushed crumbs from the sleeve of his dark tunic.

  A waiter cleared the table and asked if they wanted anything else. Mansoor and Dhillon asked for mint tea and Thorne ordered coffee.

  ‘How is the investigation going?’ Bannerjee said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You mean the attempt on Detective Inspector Tanner’s life or the series of honour killings?’

  There was no noticeable reaction from Bannerjee. Dhillon and Mansoor drank their tea. But Thorne felt the atmosphere change at the mention of those two charged words. He smiled into the silence.

  ‘Miss Tanner,’ Bannerjee said, eventually.

  ‘Of course, it doesn’t really matter, because it’s the same investigation. The two things are connected. The honour killings are the reason someone tried to burn her house down while she was still in it.’

  ‘How can you possibly say that?’ Dhillon said.

  ‘Because it’s the truth.’

  Mansoor was quick to back his friend up, eyeing Thorne across his teacup. ‘Nobody is questioning that there was an attempt on Miss Tanner’s life. There is very clear evidence of it. Honour-based violence is a deplorable activity which all our communities must engage with, but the idea that there is a series of…’ He shook his head as though he could not bring himself to say the word. ‘That people are carrying out
these… acts for money. Nobody has ever produced a single piece of evidence.’ He brought his hand down on the table, rattling the cups. ‘Not a single piece.’

  ‘You said it yourself.’ Dhillon held out his arms. ‘You are just a police officer, so surely evidence is your stock in trade.’

  ‘Usually,’ Thorne said. ‘When I can get it.’

  ‘Take that poor young Muslim couple who went missing three weeks ago. This is a very good example.’

  ‘An example of something, certainly.’

  Mansoor nodded sadly. ‘Amaya Shah and Kamal Azim.’

  Dhillon leaned across the table. ‘There is a good deal of evidence to suggest that this was, in fact, anything but an honour killing. So how can you sit there and —?’

  Bannerjee raised a hand and said, ‘Yes, well.’ His words brought an abrupt end to an exchange that was threatening to become heated. It was the same tone Thorne had seen him use to rein in his son at the hospital a few days before. The Hindu businessman seemed to be the unofficial leader of the triumvirate. Or perhaps he was simply paying for lunch.

  He looked at Thorne. ‘If I might repeat my question, how is your investigation going?’

  Thorne leaned back. ‘As a matter of fact, I was going to ask for your help.’

  ‘Us?’

  Suddenly, he had the attention of all three.

  ‘Well, yes… of course,’ Mansoor said. ‘Anything we can do,’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Dhillon said.

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ Thorne picked up one of the chocolates that the waiter had left and began to pick at the gold foil. ‘When’s your next meeting?’

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Ilyas Nazir was as observant as he was devout.

  He had first noticed the man a week or so before at Tuesday morning prayers, and seen him at every session since. An unassuming individual, seemingly alone, and always laying his prayer mat down towards the back of the room. A new face would usually catch Nazir’s eye, but something compelled him to seek that particular face out again each time he entered the mosque, and now he found himself drifting through the crowd, looking for it. New worshippers were always welcome, of course, but this man had an almost visible fervour about him; a need that Nazir had picked up on almost straight away.

  He looked troubled.

  Nazir prided himself on an intimate knowledge of this congregation. He had been worshipping here for many years and knew exactly who was who. He saw allegiances forged and watched enmities develop. He understood the make-up of every clique and faction and was very well aware which people were here to be seen and who came to genuinely surrender themselves to the True and Only Creator. More important, everyone knew who he was. He enjoyed the fact that he was known as someone to whom others turned for advice or expertise. Someone they looked up to. He was not the imam, of course, and only the imam himself could offer genuine guidance, but he was most certainly respected and, other than those precious moments of salah, five times daily, when, like everyone else, he was necessarily prostrate before God, Ilyas Nazir walked around the mosque with his head held high.

  Exchanging pleasantries with fellow worshippers and asking after their families. Humbly accepting the occasional gift or acknowledging good wishes.

  Smiling beneath his gold skullcap.

  Immediately following the noon prayer, the congregation was moving towards the exit, and once again Nazir spotted the newcomer. Was it not a tradition to welcome strangers? A pillar of the faith? He quickly extricated himself from his conversation and finally caught up with the man just outside the main doors. Groups had gathered as usual to gossip and smoke, pulling on overcoats against the cold.

  He put an anorak on over his white jubba, then reached to lay a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘As-salaam-alaikum.’ He held out a hand, which the stranger took, if a little cautiously.

  ‘As-salaam-alaikum.’

  ‘I’m Ilyas.’ He smiled. ‘Ilyas Nazir.’ He looked for something in the man’s face to suggest that the name was familiar to him, and was disappointed to see nothing. He waited.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry… Jad Hakim.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Jad. You’ve not been coming here very long.’

  Hakim stared at his shoes. Shy, or nervous. ‘No. Just a week or so.’

  ‘Well… welcome. You could not have chosen a better place to worship. You will make many friends here, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hakim said. He did not sound overly thrilled at the idea.

  Nazir waved at someone passing behind Hakim, promised to call someone else who stopped briefly to say goodbye. He shook his head and smiled, as though exhausted by the demands on his time. ‘So, have you been attending a different mosque? Wood Green, perhaps, or Haringey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They are very good, too.’

  ‘We only moved to the area a few months ago,’ Hakim said. ‘From Slough.’

  Nazir’s eyes widened. ‘Moving to London?’ He laughed. ‘That’s a brave step, considering the house prices.’

  Hakim smiled for the first time, but it didn’t last long. ‘I know… but we had to move and I’ve got a cousin in London. It was his idea, actually. We’ve had some family problems. So…’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Hakim said, though Nazir could tell that it really wasn’t. ‘Family, right?’

  ‘Of course. Things don’t always go the way we would like them, but sometimes Allah tests us with such things.’ He took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his anorak, shook one out.

  Hakim stared at him.

  ‘I know,’ Nazir said, lighting up. ‘But in terms of the commandments, these things are a grey area.’ He smiled as he inhaled, remembering the conversation he’d had with the policewoman, Tanner. ‘By “family” you mean…?’

  ‘My sister,’ Hakim said.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Where we were living before, she fell in with a crowd, you know? Girls who were not living the right way. There were boys.’

  ‘What’s your sister’s name?’

  ‘Raheema.’

  ‘Merciful and kind.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hakim said.

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Nineteen. She is refusing to marry, to talk about it even, spitting in my father’s face.’ Hakim looked close to tears. ‘We thought that by moving away things might change, that she might straighten up and see how much shame she was bringing on us all.’

  ‘But they haven’t.’

  Hakim shook his head. ‘We were stupid, really. In London there are so many more opportunities for her to stray, to be… wild.’

  Nazir took a long drag. ‘You must talk to the imam.’

  ‘I have,’ Hakim said. ‘Days ago.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘To pray for guidance. To pray hard.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure that it will come,’ Nazir said. ‘The Most Gracious will show you the way.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘He always does.’

  Hakim nodded, straightened his plain white skullcap, but once again he looked as though he might burst into tears. ‘I have thought bad things,’ he said. ‘About doing bad things.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The worst thing.’

  ‘I understand,’ Nazir said.

  ‘But I don’t think I’m brave enough.’

  ‘Then perhaps it is the wrong thing.’ Nazir tossed what was left of his cigarette away and stepped close to the newcomer. ‘Now you feel as though your back is against the wall, so you think about an extreme course of action. But in time, this may change and you will be able to forget you ever had such an idea. As I said, when the Almighty chooses to show you the way, you will know.’

  Hakim turned and stared out across the playing field. He shivered and hunched his shoulders against the cold. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Nazir shrugged, as though he had simply been giving him street directions. ‘
Any time you want to talk.’

  Hakim nodded, then reached into his jacket and produced an envelope. He held it gingerly towards Nazir.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s my sister’s diary. Well… I couldn’t take the whole thing because she would know. So I borrowed it when she was at work and went to the local newsagent’s and copied a few pages.’ He kept his voice low, as though he were a spy handing over state secrets.

  Nazir glanced around then reached for the envelope.

  ‘If you read them, you’ll see.’

  When yet another person stopped by to talk to Nazir, Hakim stepped aside and began to walk away, but even as Nazir was tucking the envelope into his pocket and greeting his new companion like a long-lost friend, he kept one eye on his newest. Laughing at a joke he had already heard several times, he watched Jad Hakim trudging across the car park; stooped, as though burdened with a terrible despair and desperate for its weight to be lifted.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Saturday, July 8th

  I used to try to keep these pages secret, I mean that’s what you’re supposed to do with a diary, right? But I always knew you would look for it, that you would keep searching until you found it, so what’s the point in hiding it any more? I can’t be bothered wasting my time.

  So… HELLO JAD!!!

  I KNOW you’re looking at this, so as a special one-off treat, today’s ramblings are JUST for you.

  Hope it’s a cracking good read.

  Same thing with the make-up. I used to stash it in plastic bags behind the radiator then fish them out with a coat hanger. Is that how you found it? I know you did, because lipsticks and things were always going missing and I know you threw them away. Unless you wanted to use them yourself. Course not, because I know what you think about boys who wear make-up!! Thing is, I always know when you’ve been in my room because I can smell your stupid aftershave. You think it makes you smell like a man, sexy or whatever, but it makes you smell like old socks and cheesy feet. So when I come in, I know you’ve been poking about, searching for something to disapprove of. I can literally sniff you out, bro! Now I make a point of buying things like that, clothes or whatever. Because if you and dad would hate it, I know it must be pretty cool.